


Homecoming

by PontaFetish



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Established Relationship, Fanfiction, M/M, tezuryo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-03
Updated: 2011-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-22 04:31:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PontaFetish/pseuds/PontaFetish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryoma is coming back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> Problem with writing M/M -- the pronouns. @.@

Kunimitsu weaved his way through the throng of people to the front of the arrival gate. He was vaguely aware that people were chattering all around him, some of them with anxious looks on their faces – probably parents expecting the return of their children, he briefly surmised – but he had his full attention trained on the gate. People were starting to come out of it.

He took a deep breath and waited.

A redhead exited first, followed by a man with attaché case, then a woman, all of whom Kunimitsu dismissed cursorily. A short dark-haired man was next, and Kunimitsu’s heart sped up momentarily, before he saw that the man was too rotund to be Ryoma. He chided himself, checked his watch, and looked up again.

Tufts of dark hair poking out under a white cap, a red hoodie, tennis bag slung over one shoulder and a carryall in the other hand. Kunimitsu barely stopped his breath from hitching.

“Ryoma,” he called. Ryoma swivelled towards him and smiled, a genuine smile, not his usual smirk, and this time Kunimitsu couldn’t stop his breath from catching.

“Buchou,” Ryoma greeted, walking towards him quickly. He leaned down to take the carryall from Ryoma’s hand.

“Let’s go home,” he said gravely.

Kunimitsu was about to turn away when Ryoma, now with both hands free, flung his arms around Kunimitsu’s neck and tiptoed up. Another second or so, and Ryoma would have succeeded in kissing Kunimitsu, but Kunimitsu’s tennis reflexes were faster. He put his hands on Ryoma’s waist and pushed him down firmly, fixing Ryoma with a stern look.

“Che,” Ryoma muttered, obviously displeased. “We haven’t seen each other in two weeks, buchou.”

Two weeks, three days, nineteen hours and seven minutes, Kunimitsu grimly mused.

Inui had been a bad influence on him.

“There are people around,” Kunimitsu reproached. “Come on, let’s go.” He took Ryoma’s hand – Ryoma eyes widened slightly at that – and strode briskly to the left.

“Buchou, the way out is the other direction,” Ryoma said, trying to match Kunimitsu’s swift steps.

“I know,” Kunimitsu said softly.

Ryoma shot him a curious look, but didn’t question further. Kunimitsu led them to a deserted passage, carelessly plopped the carryall onto the ground, and, before Ryoma could react, pinned Ryoma against the wall and pressed his lips on Ryoma’s. Ryoma gave a sound that sounded more like a squeak than anything else – he would most definitely deny that later, Kunimitsu inwardly chuckled – then Kunimitsu was kissing him fiercely. Ryoma picked up quick; soon, they were battling tongue with tongue, fingers carding through hair and arms tight around waists. Ryoma tasted like Ponta, preserved airline food and -- Ryoma.

How did he survive two weeks, three days, nineteen hours and seven minutes without this?

The need for air was growing urgent. They pulled back as little as possible, just enough so that air could enter their burning lungs, foreheads still touching. Ryoma was grinning, and Kunimitsu suspected that he had a similar expression on his own face.

“Buchou,” Ryoma breathed, and Kunimitsu shivered. “How was Japan?”

“Horrible without you,” Kunimitsu confessed, smiling.


End file.
